Chapter 13
My pulse hammered in my ears, shock turning to alarm.
“Mark me . . .” I struggled to swallow over the dry spots in my throat. “You—you can’t.”
“Can’t I?” He tugged on my secured arms, rechecking the hold. “Who will stop me?”
Dread sank me down like a ship, panic fizzing up in its wake.
He was going to tattoo me.
Tattoos were significant in our culture—used as protectors against evil, or to bring luck and prosperity. They also could identify your family or clan.
Like a thrall.
“I’m letting everyone know you are property, kanin. Mine.”
“Property?” I shrieked. Everything was happening so fast, my head spun, making me dizzy.
“You should know what that means.” He tilted up his head, pointing at a symbol on his skin. My gaze lifted to the side of his neck; the absence of his tunic let me see my father’s symbol. An indicator he had every thrall tattooed with it. A mark of the king’s ownership.
“You are marking me as your thrall?” My voice rose, the panic clipping out in short puffs.
“In a way.”
Our culture did not take tattoos lightly. There was a potency behind each one, honor and principle. Some believed they still held magic; a power we’d otherwise lost after the Battle of Blood and the lands became divided.
He reached over to the bag, grabbing a flask from the saddlebag and twisting the top off. “To numb the pain.”
“You were already going to mark me even before I tried to get away.” Wispy and crazed, my panic nibbled more and more at my rationality. “You had this prearranged.”
“Not exactly, but plans have changed.” He leaned over, placing the flagon to my lips. “You might want to drink.”
Black spots impeded my vision as I struggled to capture oxygen.
“You think I won’t scream? Cry for help?”
“Go ahead.” He scoffed. “Most women scream and moan when they’re with me .
. . Now drink,” he ordered, tipping the decanter into my mouth, pouring liquid onto my tongue.
The warmth of fermented honey and spices burned down my throat, the potent taste of mead soaking into my bloodstream.
“More, kanin.” He tipped until I was almost choking on the liquid, his thumb sliding against my throat, forcing me to swallow.
The panic trembling me eased as the alcohol slipped into my system, allowing me to take full breaths, the anxiety in my body relaxing.
“More . . .” he rumbled again. I did, wanting more of the peace calming my brain. Relief from feeling scared all the time. He set the flask down and picked up the needle and ink, his finger tilting back my head. “I wouldn’t move.”
A gasp parted my lips as I felt the prick of the needle breaking the surface of my skin, the surge of fear and pain rushing up—but it fizzled out, turning to liquid in my veins.
Heat.
The needle marked down my neck, my body becoming more sensitive to his touch, the sting arching my back and tugging at the bonds circling my wrists as he moved down.
His face was close, his free hand stretching the skin, his breath skating between my breasts.
At each stab of pain my eyes watered, but a buzzing hummed through my body.
A rush of adrenaline, crashing into the headiness of the liquor.
I wanted to cry and scream, shocked at the audacity anyone would treat me this way.
However, my body reacted contrarily to all of that.
A high off the pain coursing through me, the ruthlessness of his act pulsing down my spine, the alcohol misting over every moral dilemma.
The carnal depravity of his soul was soiling mine.
His large palms slid down my neck, tapping the needle into my collar bone, and my skin tingled, like it was absorbing the ink’s power, its claim on me, as if he really had the influence to make me heed its authority.
The idea terrified me, though I knew there was no way that kind of magic was real.
Not anymore. Runes were ceremonial, merely a symbol now, but that visible tattoo held power, it made it clear I was his property.
“You can’t do this to me.” My tone was that of a petulant girl used to getting her way.
“Clearly I can.” He lifted the needle from me, the tip mixed in my blood and ink. He positioned the needle at a blank spot between his thumb and index finger, tapping the needle into his own skin.
“What are you doing?” My pulse beat into my neck, anxiety trying to fight a way through the alcohol.
He didn’t respond, continuing to tap out a rune in his own skin, a long line with characters connected to it.
Some I didn’t understand, except the triangles with their points touching, which represented wings in our culture.
Two triangles indicated your growth, freedom, and connection to our deities.
Four—two on top and two on bottom—implied a bonding.
It was a connection to your mate, so you could find them in any realm.
I had seen old tapestries with these types of marks woven in them.
Ancient binding runes, found between betrothed couples or those committing their lives to serve Huginn and Muninn.
Tales of blood rituals and sacrifice. But that was old magic, a lost antiquated sacrament.
The symbol he inked wasn’t one for a betrothal pair, but a diamond shape, made of four triangles placed inside, which had no meaning to me.
He struck the needle into his hand over and over; the scent of his blood filling my nose with a strange coppery tang. Red liquid trickled down his arm, dripping onto my chest, slithering into my marred skin.
My spine arched and I inhaled sharply, my mind misting over even more, trying to fight back in the last throes of my strength “Noooo.”
“Too late, little kanin.” Crushing his thick thighs around me, holding me in place. “Almost done.”
His knuckles grazed the top of my breast, the needle dripping with both our blood.
He tapped back into my flesh. It felt like it had its own heartbeat, the ink singing in flames and venom, scorching down every one of my bones, telling me the only things it desired—fight and fuck.
A gasp scored my throat, my spine curving up again at the primal sensations.
My hips opened, my nipples tightening against my bodice, a soft moan spilling past my lips.
Onyx went still, his regard crawling over the way my chest heaved in and out, my breasts barely staying in my bodice, the skin burning raw and red under his needle. Where his blood mixed with mine, the barbaric way he punctured my skin.
His eyes turned pitch black, his shoulders rigid. A long, low huff originated in his gut, his cock pulsing hard against me as we breathed in and out together, the room shrinking in around us.
I loathed him.
He despised me.
Each could gut the other right now and walk out without regret.
I had to be drugged. There was no other reason I would react this way, unless more than alcohol was in the mead, running rampant in my blood system.
Because for one moment I blistered with the need for him to spread my legs, have his fingers part me, to feel him pushing into me with abhorrence, fucking me so painfully with animosity that everyone in this tavern could hear.
Frida could hear.
The picture of his ex-lover was all it took for any lust to crumble into revolt. Horrified at myself, I turned it all on him, my face twisting in rage.
“Get off me,” I seethed.
His callous mask slid back in place, a sneer lifting his lip.
He jabbed the needle into my chest a few more times.
A language I didn’t recognize muttered out of him, coiling around me.
He placed his hand at my throat; the tattoo between his finger and thumb rubbed against mine.
The tattoo scorched like it was embedding into my bones, ironing hot through my muscle.
I screamed, perspiration dripping down my back, my body rearing at the burning pain. Like a thousand cobwebs weaved and pulled at me at once, overwhelming my mind. My body. But I could feel the pleasure throbbing between my thighs, craving more pain. Like I needed it to survive. To breathe . . .
He yanked his hand away and within a second, hurt vanished, leaving only the harsh sting of sore skin behind.
We both didn’t move or speak for a long time, the sounds of the tavern below seeping through.
Panting, my head spinning with the whiplash of what had just happened and nausea swimming in my stomach, I finally broke the silence.
“Wh-what was that?” I licked my dry lips. “What happened?”
His expression became stone. Climbing off me, he settled the scythe, blade, and needles out of my reach. He reached over, clutching the flask, taking a huge gulp, his throat bobbing as he drank it down. I tried not to notice the stiffness in his trousers, his aura bristling with anger.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “What did you just do?”
“I . . .” He shook his head, as though a war battled inside, rubbing the heel of his palm into his forehead. “I tattooed you. An ordinary binding ritual.” He shrugged his shoulder, procuring gauze from the bag. “So that others will know you are my property.”
“Your property?” Spitting each syllable through my teeth. “I am not property.”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem when others are,” he seethed back. My attention once again went to the king’s stamp.
He was right, I never cared before, never thought about it. “The Night King does the same to my people.”
“And I did the same to you.” He shrugged. “Guess we’re all even.”
“That didn’t feel like a simple binding ritual.”
“How would you know?” He wrapped his hand, spots of blood soaking through the material.
My mouth opened and then closed. I didn’t know anything about binding rituals. The only time I might have experienced one was with my husband. And they were purely for show. A sign of your faithfulness and love to your intended.
Real binding rituals didn’t happen anymore.
“Old magic no longer exists,” I stated firmly, like I was the one who needed to be reassured. With each passing second, the erotic moment felt more like a dream. Something my drunken brain created.